


A Revolution Is A Simple Thing (But You Are Not)

by Shamelessly_Radiant



Series: The Neva Still Flows [1]
Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia (Broadway Musical)
Genre: (Death of her family), F/M, Gen, Imagining a scene, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11237337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamelessly_Radiant/pseuds/Shamelessly_Radiant
Summary: “And I am my father’s son!” He screams, and a vein throbs in his temple as he pulls out a pistol. It makes a clicking sound as the safety is disabled, and he raises it until it points at her heart. “Finish it I must.”Fear wrecks her body, but still she holds her ground and swallows around the dryness in her mouth. His hand is steady on the gun, his finger on the trigger. And her heart beats and beats and beats; she is determined to live until she dies. "Do it." she tells him, "finish it," she screams.





	A Revolution Is A Simple Thing (But You Are Not)

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered the Anastasia Musical soundtrack, fell in love with the Still/The Neva Flows song and since the chances that I'll be able to see the musical are slim to none imagined how the scene might have gone based on the wikipedia page and the trailers. So yes, this is not really a story, not even a missing scene.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8C7npTee554
> 
> I hope you are lucky enough to be able to see the musical!
> 
> (Their spoken words are from the song)

Terror strikes her, roots into her heart when she turns and sees Gleb there- leaning against the door he just locked, with all the air of a composed, casual man. But she knows better. Knows him better, sees in his eyes the crazed, driven man that believes the lies he has told himself all these years. The man desperate to finish the mission he has set himself to do- the little boy so desperate to make his long gone father proud.

“Gleb,” she says surprised, and  _trying_ , but she knows, he is too far gone already. Caught in his illusions of a new Russia, trapped in his past, and when she tries to run, he catches her.

His hand is warm and steady on her arm, his eyes hard on hers. Hard, but with something underneath that Anya can’t quite place. All she knows is that maybe not all is lost yet.

“I let you go,” he says, “but not this time.” His voice strengthens and gains conviction: “Paris is no place for a good and loyal Russian.”

“We are both good and loyal Russians,” she answers, in a voice she’s fighting to keep steady. Her heart beats and beats in her chest, and it forms a pattern in her head: she thinks _still-a-live, I am still-a-live._

His hand tightens momentarily on her arm, nails digging in slightly. They feel damp, and she’s not sure whose sweat it is. She figures it is hers, by the way her whole skin feels itchy in the heavy, red dress, her hands slippery in the white gloves.

“I’ve come to take you home.”

“My home is here now,” she replies, perhaps a tad too fast, a tad too anxious to be rid of him.

His face changes, pleading now, he turns her to face him fully, both of his hands digging into her upper arms, and her breath hitches on the next intake. “Stop playing this game, Anya! I beg you!”

She'll sign her death warrant, she knows, she  _knows_ but she can’t deny it. She won’t. All her life she had lived without knowing who she was, now, she embraces it, and with it, embraces her fate, wherever it may lead her, even if it is to bleeding out on the thick carpets of this hotel, dressed up and still not quite believing she belongs.

“We both know it’s not a game, Gleb.”

He lets go of her, wiping his hand on his pants as he takes a step back. _Oh,_ she realises faintly, an afterthought really; maybe it was both their sweat mingling on her arm. The air of the room feels cold there where he let her go.

“If you really are Anastasia, do you think history wants you to have lived?” Disgust, disbelief and a little bit of left-over pleading mingle on his face.

“Yes! _Why_ don’t you?” She is the one begging now. Hoping so hard that hope can make a difference at all.

He shakes his head, angry. Rooted in his beliefs. “The Romanovs were given everything, and gave back nothing! Until the Russian people rose up and destroyed them.”

“All but one! Finish it. I am my father’s daughter.” She reclaims her birthright with that sentence, reclaims her heritage, her identity. She is reaching into herself and drawing out the fury she’s entitled to, thinking about the vengeance she deserves.

This man- this man that stands here before her, not only justifies the murder of _her_ family, but wishes the same fate trust upon her. That’s fine by her, but she will not go out without a fight. Not again.

“And I am my father’s son!” He screams, and a vein throbs in his temple as he pulls out a pistol. It makes a clicking sound as the safety is disabled, and he raises it until it points at her heart. “Finish it I must.”

Fear wrecks her body, but still she holds her ground and swallows around the dryness in her mouth. His hand is steady on the gun, his finger on the trigger. And her heart beats and beats and beats, _still a-live, still a-live._

She raises her eyes to meet his dark ones. She does not want to die. But she does not want to keep on living a lie, either.

“My father shook his head and told me not to ask,” his eyes are on hers, but they are not seeing her, lost as they are in his past, “my mother said he died of shame.”

“In me you see _them_. Look at their faces in mine, hear their screams, imagine their terror, see their blood!” Her hands are in fists; she is not done fighting. She will bring him back, she will force him to realise how wrong this is.

“But I believe he did a proud and vital task, and in my father’s name,” his grip on the gun tightens, his knuckles growing pale.

“Do it! And I will be with my parents and my brother and sisters in that cellar in Yekateringburg all over again!” She screams, furious, willing him to hear her. To _see_ her.

“The children, their voices, a man makes painful choices. He does what’s necessary, Anya. For Russia, my beauty, what choice but simple duty? We have the past to burry, Anya!”

Memories whirl in her head, so long repressed, finally set free; of her siblings screams, her mother shielding her with her body, her father pleading with their captors- and this man’s father was one of them. Perhaps the one that killed- the one that _murdered_ her mother. Anya can feel the warm sticky blood splash  against her cheek again, can feel the terror wracking her small body, the burning pain of a bullet piercing her skin.

 _And the Neva flows, a new wind blows_ , _and soon it will be spring. The leaves unfold, the Tsar lies cold_ -

"For the last time, who are you?!" Gleb roars, finger ready on the trigger and she states her name with all the certainity she can muster, with all the strength she can infuse in her voice she states: "I am Anastasia Nikolajevna Romanova."

"Be careful what a dream may bring. A revolution is a simple thing!"

“Kill me then,” she screams, loud, her throat aching with it. “Finish it! _Do_ it!” Anastasia spreads her arms wide open, leaving her chest completely open, unprotected. _Ready._

He blinks, back from his journey to the past, his mouth opening but no sound coming out, his breathing heavy. His shoulders slump, as if the conviction is seeping out of them now that he has unburdened himself of his history. But she is still shaking with her fury, still remembering her past, and she is determined to live until the moment she dies.

“What are you waiting for?” Her voice breaks, and it is only now that she realises she is crying, as sobs wreck her body.

And through her water-blurred eyes she sees him lowering the pistol.

Tucking it away.

Taking a step towards her.

She stumbles back, away from him, until she hits a wall. He stands still, raises his hands, and all she can do is watch, and wait, and scramble for purchase. For something to hold her steady.

“Your home is here now?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she exhales slowly, still watching, blinking the last of her tears from her eyes.

He nods slowly, something fierce in his gaze.

“Good. I have no clearance here.” He shrugs. “Killing you would be against the authorities of this country. But in Russia- I have a duty I must fulfill.”

She releases a shuddering exhale. “I see.”

A soft smile suddenly flits across his face. “I thought myself in love with you,” he admits, and lets out a chuckle. “I suppose it would be very inappropriate to kiss you now?”

Against her will, she breathes out a laugh: “you _did_ just point a gun at me.”

“I did,” he whispers softly, his hand twitching.

“Besides-“she gestures helplessly towards the door, towards the path Dmitri took. She was about to follow him before Gleb wandered in.

“I thought so.” He says, stepping towards her again. This time she lets him come closer.

He lays his palm against her cheek briefly- she closes her eyes for just a moment, allowing the touch, letting him comfort her even though it was him that caused her distress- and kisses her forehead.

“Goodbye Anya. Princess.” He lowers his head in respect for a moment, and then he is gone.

Anya never sees him again.


End file.
